Tunnel Rats
by Daishi Prime
Summary: Iron Kingdoms A new warcaster's first brush with the trials and horrors of his calling. Oneshot.


**Tunnel Rat**

Alain looked up from the papers in front of him, and considered the Watchman carefully. "Bogrin? You want me to go into the sewers after... Bogrin?"

The Watchman sighed, and repeated, "Yes, warcaster, Bogrin. Please, don't take me wrong, I have the greatest respect for your powers and capabilities. But we have already sent three full patrols down those sewers after these bandits, and none of them have come back. We want you to lead the next patrol. We have a good idea of where they are hiding, and this next force we send down will be much more powerfully equipped. But it will still lack the arcane and mechanikal advantages you and your 'jacks would provide. Please, warcaster, at least consider. The Watch will be in your debt if you can clean these things out, especially if after the damage they've caused us."

Alain nodded, "All right, I'll think about it. You understand, whatever fee you're offering, cost of fuel, water & ammunition expended in the mission will be added to that, yes?"

"Of course, Warcaster. Just because this isn't the border doesn't mean we have not hired Warcasters in the past. The Corvis Watch is quite familiar with the standard hiring practices of the Army."

"Good. In that case, when is this job supposed to start?"

The look of relief on the man's face was almost comical. "Thank you, Warcaster, thank you very much. We have the force assembled, and a planning session scheduled for tomorrow morning. Would you be able to attend? Midmorning, in the Watch HQ building. Just tell the guards at the visitor's entrance that Captain Marquette sent you."

"Fine," Alain replied, "I'll be there."

The watchman produced a pen, and Alain signed off on the contract. As the man hurried off, Alain sighed to himself. "Lawgiver's light, Master Grundback's going to laugh his scraggly head off when he finds out about this. But..." His fingers slid over the money belt beneath his shirt, finding the few coins secreted there, "I need the frakin' work." He glared around at the mostly empty street, "Damn city's too expensive to be for real. 'Go north, lad, plenty o' work along the border there.' Grundback you old fool. The border, yeah, but all the work's on the wrong side of it, and merc or not, I'm no Khadorn frost-monkey."

He sighed again, and shoved himself away from the table. A few pennies in the till on his way past the counter covered his beer, and then he was out in the street, working his way through the press of people towards the mechanik's shop where he was trading make-work for room.

The next morning found him standing before the Corvis Watch's headquarters building, a solid stone building, less magnificently fortified than the Army's headquarters up the street, but also obviously a military construction. Straight stone lines, small windows, and precious few thick oaken doors.

He passed through the open pair labeled "public entrance," and found himself in a substantial waiting room. Posters on the walls depicted numerous criminals of every shape and size, layered so deeply that the actual walls beneath were invisible, as were more than half of the posters. Simple rows of benches filled the floor space, mostly empty. A bored looking pair of enlisted troopers leaned on a counter behind wooden bars, their kiosk placed next to the one door leading further into the building.

Alain considered for a moment, looking over the handful of over 'visitors'. When cursory inspection proved what they were not, he strolled up to the counter. The two troopers ignored him completely, even after he reached the kiosk. He waited for a few moments, then rapped once on the wooden counter. "Excuse me, boys. Don't mean to interrupt your gossip session, but I'm looking for someone."

The two twitched, and turned as one to glare at him. The further of the two sneered back, "Oh, you're lookin' fer someone, eh, _boy_? Well, mebbe you kin wait yer turn like eve'b'dy else, eh?"

Alain cocked his head, leveling an amused glare at the vocal one. "I have waited. I'm done waiting. You can either explain to _me_ where to find Captain Marquette of the Corvis Watch, or you can explain to Captain Haley of the Cygnaran Royal Army why you're interfering with one of her subordinates completing their mission. Your choice, _private_."

The corporal's sneer fell away at the mention of one of Cygnar's better known warcasters, and vanished completely at Alain's implication of demotion. Still, he was hardly polite as he hauled a substantial tome out from beneath the counter, "Captain Marquette?" He swung the book open, then flipped several pages back and forth, "huh, you'd be Amberdrake, then? Says here wizard," the corporal looked him up and down, taking in the armored greatcoat, the heavy pistol and battleglaive, and obviously muscled physique. "What's with..."

"Update that, please," Alain cut off the question, "it should say 'warcaster'. I believe accuracy and honesty are still considered virtues in Cygnar, yes?"

"Uh, yes sir," he replied, and scribbled madly in the book. "If you will please follow private Jonas here, he can show you the way, sir." He waved at the other man, who looked even more surprised and uncomfortable than himself, "Briefing hall 3, and be polite."

Alain smiled as he followed the private through the doors and into the depths of the building. Amazing what a simple title could do. He was soon shown to a small room, somewhere deep in the warren-like building. Marquette was already there, along with two other men in Watch uniforms. The only furniture, a fair sized table, was strewn with maps of the city and, apparently, its sewer system.

"Good morning, Mister Amberdrake," Marquette, said, breaking off his conversation and shaking hands, "It's good to see you."

"Good morning," Alain responded, nodding, then looking questioningly at the other two men in the room.

"Lieutenant Chambers and Sergeant Henryn," Marquette introduced. "Lieutenant Chambers will be coordinating the over all operation, while Sergeant Henryn will be leading the force actually entering the sewers."

Alain and the other officers exchanged greetings, and then Lieutenant Chambers took up the briefing. "What we are planning, Mr Amberdrake, is a hounds-to-hunters approach." He shifted the maps around, settling one of the city streets on top. Several points were marked with tacks. "We know where the Bogrin are hiding, roughly, and will position Watch personnel at each sewer entrance in the area. They will be the 'hunters' in the scenario. Once they are in place, Sergeant Henryn's two squads will move in here," he tapped a tack placed along the river, "through the main local service tunnel. You will be going in with them. While you are free to engage the Bogrin as necessary, and for the purposes of this mission will have authority to arrest any you catch in the name of the Corvis Watch, we don't actually expect you to encounter any Bogrin. Bogrin in general are not the most combative of creatures, and we believe they will flee rather than face Sergeant Henryn's force, and be caught as they attempt to exit the tunnels."

The young man paused, then took a deep breath, "The reason we have hired you, warcaster, is that we have tried this three times in the past month, each time sending a single squad in through dispersed points. Two men came back from the first, one from the last. The two from the first mission were terribly injured, and died of infections within a day. Neither of them managed to say anything coherent, not even a recognizable language. One never made a sound, the other would only scream if anyone save a cleric came near. The man who returned from the third was similarly wounded, but was slightly more coherent. He was raving mad, but coherent – he encountered a monster of some sort down there." The Lieutenant paused, obviously expecting a shocked reaction, but Alain merely waited politely. He'd expected something of the sort, after all. Chambers coughed after a moment, and continued, "We feel that sending a double-strength squad in, as a single unit, with 'jacks in support, should be plenty of power to deal with whatever critter may have taken up residence beneath the city. I understand you have three warjacks?"

Alain shook his head, "Two only, for this mission. I have a third, an old Talon, but I checked the sewer mains yesterday evening. Horus might fit down the main tunnels, but it would hamper more than help. The Gunrunners will be fine, and quite frankly, they should be able to handle anything down in the sewers well enough."

"Two, then," Chambers agreed. "I agree, actually, two should be plenty. In all honesty, Mister Amberdrake, I don't expect you to do much. Two squads, with forewarning, should have plenty of firepower."

Chambers gestured to Sergeant Henryn, who elaborated in a gravel-rough voice, "Each trooper's taking in a pinfire rifle, pair of pinfire pistols, and six grenades a piece. Fifty rounds rifle, thirty rounds pistol, and a combat knife. Same load out we use for garrison duty when the Kharddies get uppity. Seen that kinda firepower take down a 'jack before, so'm not worry'n much."

Alain nodded, surprised. That was indeed quite a lot of firepower for one sewer hunt. "I'd be concerned with the grenades, in tight quarters like these. Libel to cause some friendly casualties, but not if the troops are kept in hand."

Henryn grunted, whether in amused agreement or annoyed offense Alain couldn't tell. "They'll be 'kept in hand' Amberdrake. Just do the same wi' your 'jacks."

"Good, good," Marquette interrupted, "which only leaves timing. Lieutenant Chambers?"

"Sir, the Watch is ready to go. I would like to go in right at dawn, when the Bogrin should be settling in after their nightly depredations. They'll be tired, more likely to make mistakes, and more likely to be confused, disorganized. All we need is Mister Amberdrake?"

"I can be ready to go a dawn. I'm ready to go now, actually. I would appreciate meeting with the squads shortly before hand, build some familiarity so my 'jacks will recognize them, and I'd appreciate it if one of them could help me with my armor, at the same time."

"You're going to wear your full armor?" Chambers sounded surprised.

Alain smiled, "I'm going into a combat situation, Lieutenant. I'm not going without armor. Besides, it helps me keep coordinating the 'jacks. No reason not to, every reason to."

"Fair 'nough," the sergeant nodded.

"Tomorrow morning then, say an hour before dawn, at the entrance to the service tunnel?"

Lieutenant Chambers nodded, "In the morning, then, warcaster."

The next day began far too early for Alain. Midnight found him up and working, doing last minute tuning on the two modified Grundback Gunners he had bought from his master. Tightening bolts, checking fuel levels, running the 'jacks through their various tests to verify cortex stability and connections, cleaning the quad-barreled rifles, and generally cleaning them up. The old Talon he left alone, in its storage bay at the back of the shop.

The mechanik he was staying with, a former Army Mechanik himself, had been perfectly willing to let him use the shop for the work. To Drake's surprise, the man even helped him don and start up the cumbersome warcaster armor he had modified from Gorten's old suit. He did not drain the two heavy accumulators, this time, since he had plenty of time, instead simply verifying their full charge and loading the focus chamber between them appropriately. The double-barreled pistol, cruder version of his master's gun, clipped onto the armor's chest over the left shoulder, and the massive Caspian battleglaive, with its own pair of heavy accumulators, went over the opposite shoulder. Following in Sergeant Henryn's example, he raided his dwindling supply of grenades, taking four on his belt, and filling two of the four compartments arrayed across his chest with extra ammunition for the pistol. True to the tradition of warcasters Immoren over, he eschewed the use of a helmet, instead settling for a pair of alchemical goggles fitted for vision enhancements as his only head protection.

Walking through the streets of Corvis in the small hours of the morning, he felt completely relaxed. He chuckled at the thought of how easy it was to be confident when wrapped up in a mountain of magical metal. Footpads wouldn't even look at him, and that was before they caught sight of the two small 'jacks following him like obedient puppies.

While he was personally a fan of the old Talon, having had that machine for years, he had to admit that his modification of Grundback's Gunners were probably the more useful of his 'jacks. Shorter than the dwarf himself, they barely reached Alain's chest, compared with the Talon's relatively towering seven foot height. In place of Gorten's single compact cannons, however, Alain had opted for a weapon system he could personally maintain, a set of four rifles mounted to a single rotating axle. While not a true chain-gun, as the Cygnaran Sentinel 'jack used, the four-barreled rotary gun was capable of an impressive rate of fire, and while they lacked the individual power of Gorten's cannons, they had better range. The dwarven-designed cortexes were also easier to control than the near-senile Talon, and their small size and large feet allowed them to go places the Talon simply couldn't.

The early-morning streets of Corvis, however, gave him no opportunity to practice with them. The city itself was slumbering in preparation for the coming dawn, with only scattered bakers working to get their morning product ready. He strode through the silence, three steam engines and three sets of metal feet causing a rumble and ruckus that no doubt woke the lighter sleepers along his route, already preparing himself psychologically for the hours ahead.

When he arrived at the service tunnel entrance, he found the twenty troopers already gathered, along with a few more standing around holding torches. Each trooper had a set of their own torches as well, but they were as yet unlit, almost an hour prior to entering the tunnel.

Every eye in the group was focused on him before he reached the group of men, and they continued to watch as he ordered a warjack to either side of the tunnel entrance. He looked around at the gathered faces, mechanikal goggles bringing their shadowed faces into daylight clarity, and found Sergeant Henryn easily enough. He walked over, and nodded, "Good morning, Sergeant."

"'Morning, Warcaster," Henryn returned. The older man looked him up and down once, then gave him a quizzical look. "'Thought you needed a hand ta get inta that fancy getup a' your's?"

Alain smiled, "I did. The mechanik I took lodgings with assisted me. A surprise, but he _has_ been itching to get his hands on my armor since I arrived. And wearing it down here gave it a chance to settle into place."

"You ready, then?"

"Whenever you are."

"Big sword ya got there."

"Sorry, mild case of 'jack envy."

Henryn burst out laughing at that, slapping his thigh once. "All right! Good enough, warcaster, good enough. Anything we should call you, or 'spell-slinger' good 'nough?"

Alain returned the man's smile, "I prefer Drake, actually. Anything else reminds me of my father."

"Fair 'nough. Drake, these are Sergeant Danowski, and Corporals McCalla and Quinn." The three closest to Henryn each nodded at their names. They looked ridiculously young to Drake, but he was starting to get used to that. "They lead the sections, and that's the order of command after me. Got it?"

"Clear enough."

"How were you thinking you'd fit in to this, then?"

"Point. Beagle and Bloodhound are built for tunnels and heavily armored enough to survive if something lands on them. After them, I would recommend either myself, or at most one trooper. The closer I am to them, the easier it is for me to control them. Also, these goggles of mine will probably give me better vision than your torches, so long as none of the torches get in the way. Finally, those guns of theirs aren't the most discriminating of weapons. Your troops will be better at shooting around the 'jacks than the 'jacks will be at shooting around troopers."

"You aren't worried 'bout loosing them?"

"'jacks are expensive machines," Drake told him, "but they are still machines. They can be replaced, easily enough."

"Hmm, sounds good, but no. Corporal Quinn here will take point with two members of his squad. They're our trackers. Put one of your 'jacks behind them, keep the other with you or in the back. You, warcaster, are going in the middle. Easi'ah ta coordinate if this critta hits the back of the column like I'm expectin'."

Alain thought he was wrong, but just shrugged. He had been hired to support them, not the other way around. "One front, one rear, then."

The force shook down soon after that. Drake topped off the fuel hoppers for his 'jacks and his own armor, while the squads made their final equipment checks. Then Quinn and his two trackers led off, followed by Beagle. Alain himself wound up marching just behind Sergeant Henryn, and Bloodhound brought up the rear, save for another pair of Quinn's people.

The service tunnel was fine, despite the darkness. It was built for frequent access and, aside from the grate across the entrance, was an unobstructed shaft leading straight ahead into the the side of a hill. The downward angle was a little steep, but the mechanikal assists built into his armor let Drake handle it easily. They marched for nearly ten minutes in a loose formation before they reached the actual sewer main, and Henryn called a halt.

While the sergeant was detailing Quinn's orders a final time, Drake stepped over to Beagle and nudged a lump of metal. It shivered, then unfolded from its curled rest position. The long whip-like tail and sharp pointed nose of a rat looked up at him, twitching realistically despite the metallic sheen in the torch-light. "Silent recon, Snag," Drake ordered quietly, and his familiar leaped off the 'jack. It stood for a minute, artificial nose sniffing at the air, then scampered off up the sewer main in the direction Drake gestured.

One of the troopers had been close enough to see, watching the merc instead of his commander, and stared at him with wide-eyed surprise. "Wha' was tha', sir?"

Drake put a finger to his lips, "Shh. A secret. Something I built to run odd jobs for me." The man's eyes grew wider, but he didn't ask anything more, just edged a little further away and turned his attention back to Henryn.

Moments later, Quinn & his scouts started down the north sewer, and the troops shook out into order again. Drake took up his place behind Henryn, but unlike the troops, he left his gun and sword secured. He wanted to keep his hands free for balance and spells. While they walked, moving slowly but steadily, he reviewed the spells he had prepared, and checked his weapons placements, but most of his attention was focused on the two 'jacks and his familiar, Snag.

Bloodhound, bringing up the rear, was no problem, simply a matter of making sure it continued to follow the troops. Beagle, however, was more problematic. Quinn and his crew moved well ahead of the main force, which left quite a gap. He had to give quite a lot of attention to making sure the 'jack followed the correct tunnels, when it came to each turning. After those, he only had a small amount of attention to devote to Snag, despite knowing the small rat would probably give him his first warning.

As the soldiers penetrated deeper into the sewers, he found his expectations did not live up to reality. The stench, bad as it was, was not overpowering. The metal-and-steam stink of the forgeries and mechanikal workshops he grew up in was worse, in its way, and however clean Cygnar's cities were, they were still cities, with large numbers of people crammed into a small geographical area. Similarly, he had expected the closed in and dark to bother him more. However, with the goggles down and the troops torches behind him, he found he could see well enough, and the sewer passage was large enough that he didn't have to stoop, despite his relative height.

Rather, it was the sounds that he found most disturbing. Every sound echoed oddly in the tunnels, down to the gentle swish of water down the central channel of the tunnel. The booted footsteps of the troops and the clank of his own armor was loud enough, but the hiss and grind of the 'jacks and his own boiler were even louder. The chaotic mixture of sounds made it impossible to estimate positions and distance, and he could only tell how far from him Beagle and Bloodhound were by the arcane resonance of their cortices. He found that rather disturbing, since he was used to being continually aware of his 'jacks' positions through every sense, not just his training.

They marched for close to an hour, digging deeper beneath the city. The force spread out slightly, five man teams spreading out into a pair of side channels that paralleled the sewer-main's course. The tunnel became rougher, more worn down, and the central channel widened until they could no longer avoid walking in the flow. The stench was worse, but Drake just willed himself not to react. From the sounds echoing behind him, other troopers failed in their attempts to remain composed, but Drake ignored that. Reassuringly, Henryn also demonstrated remarkably little discomfort due to the stench or closed in surroundings.

Drake was just settling into a marching routine, when Snag suddenly panicked. Well ahead of the force, further down the tunnel than even Quinn, the mechanikal rat came across something that caused its emotions to spike, and it was suddenly closing rapidly. "Sergeant," Drake spoke at the first flare, "Something ahead of us. Not sure what, but it's bad. About five hundred yards."

Henryn stopped and looked at him in the dark, "How do you know?"

Drake held up one hand, letting the arcane energies of one of his prepared spell curl around his spread fingers. "I have my ways, Sergeant. The same ways I have to control the 'jacks. There's something bad ahead. On the other hand, that's what we're here to deal with, yes? Better warned than dead."

Henryn nodded, then stepped over to the other side of the tunnel. "Two by two," he ordered. "Jenks, Marits," the two troopers closest behind Drake nodded, "at the next cross-tunnel, pass the word to the flanks. Let's go."

The force had been moving in loose formation up the tunnel, each man walking where he was most comfortable. Now, they divided in half, pressing up against opposite walls in the tunnel, and each man brought his rifle down into both hands from the loose carry positions they had maintained. Drake found himself opposite Henryn, and now he did draw a weapon, pulling the massive Caspian Battleblade from its magnetic mount on the armor. It was heavy, but he kept in one hand, using the other to loosen his grenades.

They resumed their march, moving up, but stopped soon again. One of the scouts who had gone ahead with Quinn came trotting back down the tunnel. Through Beagle, Drake sensed him coming, and passed the word. The man came back to Henryn, and after a quick whispered conversation, returned forward. "Bodies ahead," Henryn commented, and then continued the advance.

The chamber they found was horrific. All three tunnels they were following converged in the room, and two more lead out of it further beneath the city. The room itself was obviously recently inhabited and in somewhat better repair. The sewer channels were deeper and spanned by boarded bridges, at least. What made it horrific, however, were the bodies stacked against the walls, like cord wood, against three of the rooms five walls, four and five deep.

Drake and Henryn found Quinn and his two scouts in the chamber, standing in the middle of the room as far from the bodies as they could arrange. They were obviously disturbed and afraid, fingering their weapons incessantly. Henryn held up one hand as soon as he entered the chamber, silently ordering his troops to stop in the tunnel, but still, one of the more observant swore loudly, "Morrow's mercy, these are ours! I... I know some of them!"

"Silence in the ranks," Henryn snapped. He walked over to Quinn, and began speaking quickly but quietly. Without orders, Drake brought both 'jacks forward and set one in front of each of the tunnels leading further under the city. Moments later, Snag came scampering out of one. The rat bolted past Beagle, and even came within a couple yards of the scouts in its unerring flight to Drake. The sudden movement caused the twitchy soldiers to flinch, and three rifles snapped down before they realized they weren't under attack.

The guns tracked Snag as the rat bolted up Drake's armor to his shoulder. For his part, Drake simply stared at them. Once he was certain he had their attention, he said, quite calmly, "I would appreciate it if you would point those elsewhere, gentlemen. My mini-jack here is quite harmless, I assure you, and I will be most displeased if one of you breaks it."

Henryn gave him a hard look, but put a hand on one rifle, forcing it down. "I don't appreciate having people go behind my back like that, warcaster."

"And I do not appreciate being ambushed," Drake replied, listening with only half his attention. The other half was dedicated to the rapid chatter of his familiar. The phrases were indistinct, and Snag had not seen much before it was discovered, but one phrase came through clearly and Drake cursed softly, himself. "There's a warjack up there," he snarled.

Henryn, just turning back to his scouts, snarled, "What!"

"A warjack. I don't know what kind, but it's up the left-hand tunnel. There are some armed men up there as well, but there's something wrong. Snag doesn't react like this to fighters or 'jacks, but it can't tell me what's got it so panicked."

"That the 'something bad' you mentioned?"

"Gotta be," Drake answered. "Where to now, Sergeant?"

"We're here to clean out a bunch of bogrin and whatever monster's been costing us soldiers. This sounds like the most likely bet to be the monster, now doesn't it?"

"Most probably."

"On we go, then. Lef' tunnel?"

"Left hand tunnel."

"Right, all troops, left tunnel. Quinn, I wan' you an' yer men behin' the 'jack, now. If there's really another warjack up there, it's better to let the expert deal with it."

"I'll move both up, if you don't mind," Drake countered. "This just became a 'caster battle, not a vermin-sweep."

"Excuse me?"

"There's a 'jack down here, sergeant, and that means a battle, not a vermin sweep. This is my area, Sergeant. Let me deal with the 'jack, and then you and your boys can have whatever's left."

Henryn considered it for a moment, then grunted, "Fine. Take the lead."

Drake called Bloodhound over with a thought and started down the tunnel. He still didn't draw his gun, it was a short-ranged weapon and he wasn't a particularly good shot with it. More importantly, he fully intended to have the two 'jacks do all the shooting. His progress up the tunnel was slow, from caution more than anything else. The two Gunners, small as they were, were forced to travel single-file down the tunnel, though by adopting the same staggered formation as the troops, he thought he could get both into action.

He was thirty feet up the tunnel when his trained senses detected the hostile 'jack's cortex, and he paused for a few moments to study it. It pulsed, strangely, at the edge of his senses. He could recognize the basic functionality, the underlying principles, but there was none of the overlaying order and logic which he recognized from the Rulic & Cygnaran 'jacks he was familiar with. There was instead a chilling, oily flow of energies, twisted and sickening.

He was still grappling with that difference when Beagle rounded a corner, and the thing charged. It was less than fifty feet away, and for a moment he mentally stumbled as the monstrous construction of metal and bone scrambled down the tunnel. It looked like some twisted nightmarish version of a chicken or duck, massive legs and no arms attached to a rounded body, with a huge skull ending in massive fangs. The thing let out a keening wail, hideously echoing in the confined tunnel.

Then Beagle opened fire, auto-response programming determining the thing was hostile and attacking, and responding accordingly. Grundback had been appalled, initially, but neither of the Gunners carried his cannons. The tightly constructed weapons were too dissimilar to Cygnaran weapons, so Drake had replaced them. Now, the drumbeat steady _crack-crack-crack_ of the four-barreled repeating rifle sounded over the other 'jack's wail, and rounds started sparking off the tunnel walls and sloped skull.

The sound of the gun brought Drake back to himself, and he snarled an order to Bloodhound. While the second 'jack moved around to support Beagle, Drake himself channeled some of his gathered energies, pouring the focused power into Beagle. He could see the light level increase in the tunnel as the runes appeared before him, and he carefully shaped the intent. The strange 'jack was halfway to Beagle when a round penetrated its armor-like face, and detonated with arcane force. The alien thing stumbled, and then fell to one side as Bloodhound's fire found it. Drake's 'jacks continued to fire into it, now striking the softer side and underbelly, until it spasmed once and lay still, sickly green smoke and fluids flowing from numerous small punctures.

Once it was still, Drake paused for a moment, simply breathing. To his surprise, he wasn't breathing hard, though he could feel his muscles quivering with adrenalin. He thought he had been working harder, keeping the two 'jacks on target.

The sound of a gunshot from behind him snapped him back to himself. He spun in place, and listened, suddenly hearing quite clearly the sounds of screaming soldiers and more gunfire. "Menoth be merciful," he muttered. He couldn't get the 'jacks past himself here, the tunnel was not wide enough, so he would have to lead. He reached over his shoulder and pulled his battleblade free once again, swinging it around in front of him even as he began running back down the shaft. Behind him, following silent commands, the two 'jacks followed in thundering pursuit.

He reached the corpse chamber to find it a worse horror show than before. Another of the twisted 'jacks had come down the other unexplored tunnel, and was now shaking a trooper like a dog with a rat. The man's attempts to beat at it with a clubbed rifle were utterly ineffective. Worse, shambling corpses were stumbling across the chamber as well, attacking the rest of Henryn's force. The mass of half-mechanical bodies, organic components visibly rotting, appeared to be unarmed, but were numerous and apparently insensate to pain. Several had gaping wounds blown through them, recent wounds.

Drake wasn't moving very fast to begin with, warcaster armor, despite arcane enhancement, being heavy and cumbersome at the best of times. Still, that very weight and the arcane energies built into the armor were formidable, and he hit the back of the rotting horde like a wrecking ball. A muttered incantation blasted the rear ranks with a fireball before he cleared the tunnel, and he charged into the flaming wreckage swinging the battleblade in as wide an arc as possible. He was not so much interested in hitting any of the creatures, as in clearing a hole for his 'jacks to get into action.

The fireball cleared enough space for both himself and the 'jacks, but he did not stop. He took the blade in both hands after one swing almost lost it, despite cleaving through a half-rotted torso. Whatever these things were, they were pressing the Watch hard, and despite his earlier comment to Henryn about mission roles, those men were his responsibility. So he did not slow, but continued to charge, slashing at anything that got between him and his troops.

Beagle and Bloodhound came in right behind him, and the distinctive, metronomic sound of their guns joined the shouts and cries and sound of steel on flesh. The troops were too hard pressed to re-load their rifles, save for a few in the back who themselves could not shoot for fear of hitting their comrades, and the corpses apparently lacked guns of their own, reducing the battle to one of knives and swords against rotting flesh and artificial claws.

Drake hewed into the monsters around him, ignoring finesse in favor of momentum. He was no great swordsman, but he gave up most of what little form he had simply hacking down as many of the creatures as he could, and their skills were no match for the mechanikal blade, skillfully wielded or not. For a time, there as nothing around him but stinking flesh and metal, a horrid morass of vileness and twisted energies that turned his stomach.

Then he burst through the horde and barely avoided being brained by a clubbed rifle. "Sorry, sir!" the near-panicked trooper cried, voice high with terror, then swung again at another monster.

Drake ignored him, pushing through to Henryn. "Sergeant! Sergeant, fall back! They're heading down the side passages already, we'll be surrounded if we don't fall back."

Henryn snapped back, locked blade and claw with a zombie, "Damn your eyes, I know that." Anything else he said was lost in the grunting exchange with the creature before him.

Drake finally reached the man, and slammed his battleblade down through it's arms, severing both. Henryn finished it with a spastic backhanded slash, and then the two men were glaring at each other. "I'll hold here," Drake said first, "Get the men moving back."

Henryn stared at him for a second, then nodded. He started shouting orders, but Drake ignored him. With Bloodhound and Beagle in the line, the pressure had fallen off on the left, but the alien 'jack on the right was now halfway into the middle of the force. Drake stepped into its path, hitting it over the head with an over-hand blow. It was powerful enough to slam the thing's head into the ground, cracking the skull-like head, but the 'jack shook it off and turned its attention to the warcaster. It lunged before he was ready, but the massive fangs merely scraped across Drake's armor. It did succeed in knocking him over, however, and he lost his sword.

Rolling to one side and back to his feet, Drake ripped a grenade off his harness, twisted the primer lunged back at the 'jack as it attacked him again. He pulled the pin and shoved the grenade into the 'jack's opened mouth, letting their combined lunges pull him past the machine. The armor on his hand was scraped by the closing jaws, but he was clear when the grenade detonated, thunderous report damped by the thick skull. The 'jack's jaws blew clear off with the blast, and the machine itself stumbled and skidded to a stop.

There was not time for gloating, however. On the 'jack's heels had been more monsters, and Drake had to rush his own recovery. He swept his sword off the ground and into one zombie and then two more piled on his back. One fell away immediately, seared by heat rising from the boiler and arcane turbine. The other tried to crawl over his shoulder, snarling and slobbering a sickening greenish drool. One hand still picking up his sword, Drake grabbed his double-pistol and triggered it before it even cleared the magnetic pad on his shoulder. The report echoed in his ears, leaving him temporarily deaf in one, but it also blasted the creature off his shoulder, and he came back to his feet.

"Drake!" The shout stopped him short of another charge, "Drake! We are _leaving_!"

A glance showed that Henryn had pulled the troops back to the main tunnel, and while they were still fighting, he was the only one still in the chamber. He nodded and started backing up, pulling Beagle and Bloodhound back at the same time. The 'jacks were being given a wide berth, apparently immune to the monsters' claws, as the creatures attempted to sweep around. Now, as their victims were retreating, the creatures redoubled their onslaught, trying to pile atop him and his 'jacks and simply weigh them down.

Now, however, Henryn had his men organized. They were no longer a surprised and disordered mob, but arranged in a two-deep firing line. "Independent fire!" Henryn shouted, "Don't hit Drake or I'll have your balls!"

The crackle of fire was more ragged than what Drake was used to hearing in the open field engagements he had worked with his master, and he backed into it with a will. The fear of being shot by his own was minimal beside the fear of getting cut off. Despite the fire, despite his 'jacks and the damage he had already wreaked there seemed to be no end to the flood of corpses, and even now there were more coming. As the first wave of fire struck, he caught a glimpse of the back of the chamber. There, a horrid combination of man and machine, with too many arms and too many legs married to a rotting, bloated torso, was stitching together a corpse with remnants of the second 'jack he had downed, and already the thing's creation was twitching and struggling to join its fellows' attack.

Then he was in the tunnel, gun barrels on either side snapping out a final volley. They vanished, and he entered the tunnel. He was no longer actively engaged himself, as the 'jacks were now between him and the horde, still firing. The continuous fire was beginning to wear at the barrels, and Drake knew the machines were getting low on ammunition, but he also knew there was no other choice. One at a time, the three of them backed into the tunnel.

Once both 'jacks were in the tunnel, Drake shouted over his shoulder, "Twenty feet, Sergeant, and I'll see if I can slow them down!"

Henryn's shout came back immediately, "Aye, 'Caster! Twenty feet. Next rank, aim high, fire! Two more volleys, Drake, and we'll have twenty feet."

True to his word, two more ragged volleys fired off, punctuating the continuous crack of the chain-guns, and their beleaguered force fell back. With the narrow tunnel concentrating them, the zombies were easy targets, and being forced to struggle over their own fallen slowed them enough that Drake had several feet of clear space when the second volley crashed out. He was ready for it. He had allowed Beagle and Bloodhound to pass him, a difficult maneuver under fire but doable for such small machines, and was now the tail, closest to the creatures. As the troopers started falling back, he reached behind himself and twisted one of the heavy accumulators attached to the side of his arcane turbine. The first was mostly drained from recharging his power field, but the second, reserved for special occasions, was still fully charged. The twist seated it firmly in place against the conduiting, and Drake could feel the charge suddenly flowing through the armor.

He stepped into the center of the tunnel, waited a few seconds, then shouted at the top of his lungs, in deepest Rhulic, "Vengeance of the Great Fathers!" and dropped to his knees, slamming his open hand against the floor of the tunnel. The circuits carefully and secretly constructed by Grundback himself triggered, sucking the heavy accumulator dry in a heartbeat. For a moment thereafter, there was silence.

Then the world ended. The ground heaved up to meet the collapsing ceiling, and the entire world seemed to be shaking like mis-aligned turbine at full throttle. An incredible roaring sound filled his ears, and his feet were thrown out from under him and he fell face-first into the floor of the tunnel. The roaring sound went on and on, and a wave of dirt and dust swept over him, enveloping him in a gritty cloud that had him coughing immediately, as he crawled in what he hoped was the right direction.

A figure came out of the dark and grabbed him by the shoulder. If he hadn't been coughing so hard, he'd have lashed out at it, but it merely grabbed him by one shoulder and hauled him to his feet. One hand over his mouth, Henryn shook him to steady him, then muttered through a raised sleeve, "Morrow's mercy, lad, what in hell'd you do?"

"Earthquake," Drake coughed back, "small one. Master built it... into armor."

Henryn held him up long enough for him to get his feet back, and then they both retreated back down the tunnel. As the dust cloud thinned, Drake could see the other troopers falling back ahead of them, trotting down the tunnel. None of them had torches any longer, but none of them slowed for that. Beagle and Bloodhound were still waiting, and once he and Henryn were past, Drake had them bring up the rear. He almost flipped open the mage-light he had mounted on his right chest, but he didn't need it with his goggles, and he decided the bright point would ruin anyone else's developing night-vision. He did pull out his pistol long enough to reload it on the run – poor shot or not, he wanted the extra stopping power ready.

The force pounded down the tunnel, slowed only by the two 'jacks at the rear and Henryn's orders for the lead pair to watch any tunnel crossings. Drake could feel two more cortexes, close by, but their alien nature confused his senses, making it impossible for him to tell where they were in the rabbit-warren of tunnels. He and Henryn had passed three intersections without incident, and he started to relax, thinking they had out-paced the monsters. They reached the fourth intersection, and the two troopers guarding it started moving again. This time, however, instead of empty darkness, a third of those hideous fanged 'jacks came screaming out of one side tunnel.

It barreled past Drake, knocking him back into Beagle, and pounced on Henryn. The sergeant screamed, managing to get an arm up, but the thing merely bit down harder. It started shaking its head, like a dog with a rat. Henryn screamed again, and started beating at the thing's skull with his free hand. Only the chainmail sleeve over his upper arm, bending in the bite instead of breaking, kept the thing from ripping the limb off.

Drake regained his balance and had a split second to decide. He could feel the other enemy 'jack closing from behind, and knew he only had time to deal with one or the other. A mental impulse turned both Beagle and Bloodhound in place, and the two 'jacks opened fire back down the tunnel, firing blind in an attempt to drive the fourth 'jack off. While they did their work, Drake lunged on the back of the other machine, a reckless maneuver, but the only way he could be sure not to accidentally hit Henryn.

The pistol, miraculously, wound up with both barrels jammed into the base of the 'jack's skull. Flipping the selector vertical, Drake pulled the trigger, and nearly lost the gun as both barrels fired simultaneously. The gun failed, both barrels blowing open at the ends, but still slammed the 'jack's low-slung head against the floor. It bucked at that, and Drake went flailing, loosing the pistol in the dark.

He and the 'jack came back to their feet at the same time, he reaching for his sword, the 'jack turning to lunge at him instead of Henryn. He let it come, and brought the Caspian battleblade straight down on its head. The blow left his already wringing left wrist numb, but slammed the 'jack up short again. Before it could recover this time, he stepped to one side, and hacked down at the neck, hitting close to where his pistol had gone off. It took two more strikes before the thing stopped twitching.

When he stopped, he heard another metallic screech, and turned to find that Bloodhound was on its side. The last enemy 'jack had flipped the heavily armored Gunner, and then rammed it's massive fangs into the soft under-works, tearing the guts out of the 'jack. Beagle was firing into it's side, and pocks were appearing in its side, but it was just wrenching itself free of Bloodhound's wreckage.

Drake's blood boiled at the sight, and he let loose a scream of pure rage. He pulled in spell energies, as much as he could, and poured the focus into Beagle. The surviving 'jack's gun started to glow so much energy was channeled into it, and its next three shots hit hard enough to blast the other machine back up the tunnel a good ten feet. Drake wasn't paying attention, however, crouching over Bloodhound's wreckage.

"Drake," Henryn rasped from further down, voice harsh with pain. "Have to go."

Drake looked up, and found most of the troopers were back, one of them holding Henryn up by his uninjured arm. After a moment, he nodded once. "One thing to do, a promise to my master." A panel in the side armor opened to his key, and he set a grenade against the 'jack's cortex. He pulled the pin, and ran. Seconds later, the Rhule-made brain of one of his favorite 'jacks was reduced to splinters.

The force continued to retreat. Henryn faded out of consciousness within moments, and without thinking Drake took command. He ordered the three surviving injured carried first, which took three of the uninjured men to carry them. Drake, Beagle and the last four troopers remained as rear guard. He also ordered every grenade the injured and their helpers still carried to be distributed amongst the rear guard, as many as the five of them could carry.

While the injured were carried ahead at reckless pace, Drake began a systematic withdrawal down the tunnel. Each intersection received two grenades, the first simply thrown down it and detonated, the second laid next to the tunnel, with a tripwire holding the pin. The whole time, Drake watched their back-trail with Beagle, and had two men watching the intersection itself while the others laid the traps. The going was slower than he would have liked, but the men with him moved with a will.

For a tense hour, the five-man team retreated up the tunnel, lacing it with explosives. They ran out of grenades two thirds of the way back, and picked up the pace. The whole time, Drake stretched his senses as best he could, searching for any trace of alien cortex or sign of another monster, but his vigilance was disappointed. Finally, close to four hours after entering the sewers, he once again stepped out onto the surface world.

The maintenance tunnel entrance was a radically altered scene from the pre-dawn gloom. Now, as mid-morning rolled on, there seemed to be hundreds of men in the small square. The surviving injured, were stretched out to one side on the bare stone, while a cleric in the vestments of Morrow ministered to their wounds. Soldiers, actual army troops, instead of the City Watch, were stationed at the entrances to the square, and a squad of Trenchers was busy building a barricade in front of the sewer main when Drake and his last survivors came out.

Drake and his rear guard force found the other uninjured survivors a few yards from where the cleric was fulfilling his calling, and moved over to join them. Drake himself found a convenient rock and settled onto it. None of them were up to talking yet, the adrenalin and tension of the pitch-black flight still quite fresh.

Captain Marquette appeared at Drake's shoulder a few minutes later. Drake looked up at him, and waited. The captain was obviously distraught, face pale. After a moment, however, he swallowed, and said, "Warcaster, I'm afraid that the situation has gotten out of hand." He waved generally at the body of soldiers around them, "As you can see, the Army has become directly involved. When the sewer collapsed, an hour or so ago, some civilians found what looked like a warjack in the wreckage, along with... some disturbing remains. The Army moved in after that, and I'm afraid I had to hand over operational control before you came out of the tunnels."

"No surprise," Drake muttered, "Tell them there are three more down there, plus one of mine."

Marquette's eyes widened, but before he could speak a woman interrupted, "Three more? You killed four Cryxian bonejacks in as many hours? I'm impressed, Mr. Amberdrake."

Marquette and Drake both turned to look at the newcomer. She was rather impressive, the only other person present in warcaster armor, leaning on a massive spear. "Captain Victoria Haley," she said by way of introduction, and continued, "Even though they were just Deathrippers, that's quite impressive for a neophyte 'caster. Most people who run into Cryx 'jacks tend to scream and run, at least at first. Cygnar could use you."

Drake glared at her, "Fear is the mind-killer, the little death. To give into it is to fail in one's duty to the Law-giver." She raised one eyebrow, but he knew he'd gotten his message across. He was no Cygnaran loyalist, whatever his birth. "Four 'jacks for the cost of ten men dead or injured, and one of my own 'jacks lost. Not an acceptable rate of exchange."

"What of the thralls? You have to have destroyed a number of those abominations."

"I don't know," Drake answered, "I stopped counting once I realized there were over a hundred in the main chamber. Besides, the collapse should have accounted for quite a few, but I'm not willing to sort the corpses out just to raise our body-count."

She actually smiled, a sardonic little twist to her mouth, "Good man. You will deliver a full report to my officers and I tomorrow morning at two past dawn, in the Fortress. Until then, see to your wounded, warcaster."

She turned and strode off without waiting for a reply, already speaking to several of the Army officers who had been waiting politely a few yards back. Minutes later, Drake watched the first of the Trenchers start down the tunnel. Over his shoulder, he heard one of the troopers mutter, "Mebbe we shoulda told 'er 'bout the grenades, eh?"

Drake joined in the chuckle that went through the gathered watchmen. _No love lost there, apparently. Stupid really, regular troops lording it over city watchmen. Who else is going to watch their backs in a siege?_ Allowed, he commented, "they'll figure it out... eventually. Come on, boys, looks like the priest has finished. Let's give him a hand moving our wounded someplace safer."

Two days later, Drake finally finished in the Fortress. He had gone over the short foray into the sewers over a hundred times, walked through every detail. Haley, in particular, had insisted on going over every last minute detail. She did not seem to believe that he had not encountered another warcaster, and was rather blatant about trying to trip him up and 'prove' he was keeping secrets. At first he was annoyed, but eventually, he took an amused view of the relentless harassment. It was nothing compared to the carefully worded verbal flayings he'd received from Grundback, after all, and no mere human could match the Rhul-folk for stubborn attention to detail.

Eventually, however, as her trenchers dug deeper into that region of the Corvis sewers, even the illustrious Captain Haley had to admit there was no sign of major magic use or warcaster intervention, other than Drake's own. The questioning soon petered out and the discussion moved on to evaluation and consideration. Drake himself was less interested in this, his contract over, until one of the last reports came in. A tunnel had been found outside the city walls, leading into the sewers. It showed signs of recent construction, and more-recent use as an egress point, by something heavy, with four legs.

Now, once more in his 'day' clothes of mechanics boot, rough shirt and pants, and armored greatcoat, Drake was taking his leave of the Fortress and Corvis. It would take him a day or so to finish patching Beagle and get Horus, the Talon 'jack, back on-line, but then he had plans.

To his surprise, waiting at an open-air tavern just outside the gate, was a somewhat familiar one-armed man. Drake spotted him as he stood, and frowned, striding over. "Sergeant," he greeted Henryn, "Should you be out of the hospice yet?"

Henryn, surviving hand half extended, grimaced. The two men with him, still in the process of rising themselves, chuckled. "Ach, give it a rest, Drake. These two've been after me like mother hens all mornin'. Cleric's said I'm fine ta walk 'round. It's me arm I'm missin', not me leg."

Drake shook his head, "Your health." He shook Henryn's hand, and nodded to the two troopers. "I take it you gentlemen were waiting for me?"

"Tha' we were, Drake. Have some time ta talk? This here's Lorcan Enabarr and Dunley Versh, members 'f me squad."

"Certainly," Drake answered, swinging one leg over the bench. "What's the subject?"

"Day 'fore yesterday."

Drake groaned and settled his head on one hand. "I've been talking about that _ever since_ the day before yesterday. You boys sure you don't want to talk about something else? Like girls?"

Henryn chuckled openly, but the other two were patently nervous about something. Dunley managed a grinn, Lorcan just ducked his head a little. "Sorry, Drake, but one more time. More specifically, what're you gonna do 'bout the rumors there're more 'f 'em?"

That brought Drake's head up, and he and Henryn exchanged hard stares for a moment. Then Drake grinned, "Funny you should mention that. It seems that the high and mighty Captain Victoria Haley has run into these monsters before, and knows more about them than us mere mortals.. enough that she's terribly concerened at having them this far north in such strength without anyone noticing."

"Aye, enemy 'jacks under Corvis'd make me nervous, ifn I was her."

"Hmm, nervous enough to hire a journeyman warcaster to hunt down the survivors and make sure they don't report back?" All three Watchmen sat up straighter, then leaned in closer. "Turns out, those things came out of the Scharrde Isles. The zombies were something called 'mechanithralls', though they were apparently crude by the good Captain's standards."

"Bloody nasty enough," Lorcan muttered.

"True," Drake agreed. "The 'jacks were something called bonejacks. I'd heard of them, but I've never actually seen one. Freakish things, and I have to say I'm none too certain I want to see what their larger cousins, the helljacks, are like. But, Captain Haley has hired me, personally, out of 'her own funds', to intercept the survivors of our little debacle. Turns out they, or a contingent of theirs, fled south along the river last night, and the Captain would like to make sure they flee to their deaths." He blinked, then corrected himself, "graves... ah, whatever, so long as they _don't _reach the coast."

"Things took me arm," Henryn muttered, "Be nice ta get some 'f me own back."

Lorcan nodded agreement, "I haven't been able to sleep, last couple nights. I knew some of those men, in the first squads. Had to kill one of them... again."

Dunley was silent longest, then added softly, "My brother was taken by Scharrde raiders when I was a kid. Raiders like these. Running here didn't get me far enough away from them, maybe if we kill enough of them, they'll leave me alone."

Drake was silent through their discussion, considering. After a couple minutes, "I don't think the Watch'll be helping on this one, boys. Haley gave me enough of an advance to hire some men, but..."

Henryn cut him off with a grunt, "Only job the Watch has fer a one-armed sergeant's back 'f a desk. I didna spend five years in th' Army an' ten more in the Watch ta sit behind a desk an' rot. Few 'f t' other lads, couple 'f Army boys i know, they'd be interested in signin' on wi' ye. 'Specially after me 'n' the lads talk to 'em 'bout those tunnels." The other two nodded eager agreement, watching Drake carefully.

"All right," the warcaster finally agreed, "I'm leavin the day after tomorrow. It'll take me at least that long to get Horus back into gear. I'll be taking a barge down river, faster than afoot as the zombies are traveling. I'll be pushing it, though, and if I can arrange sooner transport, I'll finish Horus on the boat. Henryn, welcome to the rank of Lieutenant. You're next in command after me. Any man who joins better be willing to follow both our orders – mine if I'm around, your's otherwise."

"Hmph, me motehr raise me ta work fer a livin', Drake. I'm no officer. Been Sergeant for twelve years, I'll bloody well die one."

"Fine, we run with no officers," Drake grinned at Henryn's surprised look, but kept right on talking. "Any men you can get who can be ready to roll day after tomorrow, they'll be welcome. See if you can find at least one tracker, and maybe a cleric. Doesn't matter which faith, so long as they're up to taking on the walking dead. Can do?"

"Aye, sir," Henryn growled, "can do."

"Tunnel Rats," Dunley said suddenly, causing everyone else blink at him. "What? We need a name, don't we? For the unit? Merc units always have fancy names, right? Well, Tunnel Rats. We came out of those tunnesl like a bunch of rats – ragged and beaten, but alive and kicing. Tunnel Rats - meanest, nastiest, toughest vermin this side of the underworld."


End file.
